


Not Without Virtue

by DevilMadeMeDoIt



Series: Vices and Virtues 'verse [2]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prostitution, Angst, Companion Piece, Crack, Dean's Escort Diaries, Detective!Castiel, Fluff, Hurt/Comfort, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Matchmaker!Gabriel, Rape/Non-con Elements, Virtues, hooker!Dean, possessive!Cas, priest!Gabriel, protective!Dean, sleuth!Dean
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-09-05
Updated: 2014-03-20
Packaged: 2017-12-25 16:38:45
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 17,129
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/955373
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DevilMadeMeDoIt/pseuds/DevilMadeMeDoIt
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean Winchester is 19 and makes his living by working for Crossroads Entertainment LLC, an escort service in South Boston, but some nights there just aren't any jobs, and Dean has to hit the streets to hustle up enough cash to provide for his little brother Sam. He's pretty content with his life, enjoys sex enough that he doesn't hate himself (much) for doing what he does, until one night he gets picked up by the uniforms of the friendly neighborhood Vice squad and he meets darkly handsome Detective Cas Novak, who just might be able reform the sinner within.</p><p>companion fic to These Little Vices in Dean's POV</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Prologue: The Sinner

 

 

**Prologue: The Sinner**

 

Dean stood in front of the cracked and spotty mirror in the bathroom of the tiny two-bedroom apartment he and Sam rented. He wiped steam from the mirror that suggested a warmer shower than what he had actually had, water pressure weak and running to cold often before he could even get completely soaped up, let alone comfortably prep himself for work. He sighed and looked at his face in the glass. Last night had been long, two escort clients and as many johns as he could hustle in from the street before dawn had run him ragged, and there were puffy bags under his eyes. He groped in the medicine cabinet for the tube of Preparation H and squeezed out a bit to dab on the swollen skin. No one wanted to pick up a haggard looking boy-hooker, and he made better money the better he looked. He flashed a couple of killer come-fuck-me grins at his reflection and was rolling his eyes when the timer on the oven started beeping impatiently.

 

He hurried out into the little efficiency kitchen slash dining area to slip an oven mitt on and pull dinner out of the crappy oven. No matter what he did for a living, he always made sure that Sammy had something to fill his stomach when he got home from school, even if that meant some nights when money was tight Dean went without. Sure, Sam would complain about another cheesy casserole full of canned ingredients, but it was food and Dean worked hard to make sure he could provide for his brother. He laid the casserole on top of the stove to cool and flicked the oven off before he wandered back into his bedroom to pick out what he would wear to work tonight.

 

Crowley didn't have any escort jobs for him, so he'd have to work extra hard to pick up as much cash as he could working the corners. There was more competition out there, even though he had some friends among the other whores, he still did twice the work on nights like these for the same amount he might make from one escort job. Some of the dudes (and the occasional lady, the cougars loved Dean) had some wacky requests and were willing to pay big bucks for it. Dean was pretty much down for anything, and if some stock broker wanted to pay him a thousand bucks to dress up in a Catholic school boy uniform and spank him with a ruler, who was he to complain?

 

He pulled out a tight little tank top and a pair of ridiculously tiny shorts that his ass pretty much just hung out of, but the dirty old fuckers in their Beemers went nuts for. He slipped his Dad's dog tags over his neck after shrugging into the black tank. John Winchester had been a sad son of a bitch at the end there, but Dean always wanted to remember him when their life had been good, so he wore his tags and a beat up old pair of boots that he had found in an old footlocker at the back of his dad's closet a week after they'd put him in the ground.

 

He heard the front door opening as he was stuffing his pockets full of supplies. “Hey Sammy!” he called out to his little brother. A returned shout of “Hey!” was all he got. He stuffed his socked feet into the boots and left the laces loose so that the leather would flop around his legs when he walked and followed the sound of Sam's voice out to the living room area. His brother was sprawled out on the couch watching TV and he took in what Dean was wearing and shook his head, sighing. Before he could start in again, he hooked a thumb in the direction of the kitchen. “Come eat dinner with me, and then we'll hang until I have to go to work.” Sam bit his lip and nodded. He hated that Sam had even the slightest idea of what he did for money, but one night he had found Dean's box full of pay stubs from Crossroads Entertainment LLC and done a little investigating. The escort work was technically legal, but the work he did on the side to make ends meet definitely wasn't.

 

He had told Sam about one on the hope that it would keep him from snooping into the other. He never wanted his brother to find out about the nights he spent in holding cells, the arrests, the money he made on his knees in dirty alleys or the front seats of luxury cars.

 

They ate salty tuna noodle casserole and drank flat sodas together at the kitchen table before settling in for a few hours of Spike TV until Dean got up, ruffled Sammy's hair and grabbed his keys off the counter. He paused by the front door to say goodbye when Sam spoke. “Are you coming home tonight, Dean?”

 

“I'm gonna try to, bud. If not I'll see you tomorrow either before or after school. Promise.” He wasn't lying...who knew where his night might lead. If he was lucky he'd make enough money to cover rent and buy groceries and be home in time to see Sam off to school. If he wasn't lucky, and he got pinched, he hoped it would be Jody and Victor, and he'd end up sleeping off the night in one of the more comfortable holding cells in Boston.

 

Sam just looked at him, face unreadable. “Be careful, brother.”

\- -

 

The night ended up pretty fucking unlucky. He managed to hustle a couple johns for a few hundred, but then that creepy fucker Alastair had tried to get Krissy to go with him, forcefully, and Dean had gotten picked up (thankfully by Jody and Victor) for getting forceful right back.

 

The skin on his knuckles were split and bleeding, and Crowley would be pissed about it if he saw it, but he felt better knowing he had protected his friend. Krissy was about 16 and had been though some awful shit at the hands of people who were supposed to take care of her, so when she'd shown up on the same stretch of concrete he had been working one night in a tiny tube top and too much makeup, he'd taken the girl under his wing, tried to teach her the tricks of the trade and to keep her from the creeps.

 

Julia Roberts had made being a hooker look glamorous, but the Lifetime network was closer to the truth. People working the streets went missing all the time, kidnapped or sold into sex slavery or killed by psychos. Everyone knew it happened, and they all tried to warn each other about the ones that were close to toeing the line between creepy and serial killer. Alastair was one of those, good _God_   was he ever. He'd shown up on the scene a year or two ago, and while most tried to avoid him, there were a few girls that had been desperate enough to go with him and had ended up traumatized or scarred.

 

Dean had been bent over seductively, leaning into the open window of a sleek, beetle black Porsche when he'd seen Krissy following a tall, silver haired man down the alley. He'd tried to extricate himself from the window and chase her when the timid looking guy behind the wheel had grabbed onto his wrist and stopped him. He'd yanked his hand out of the dudes grip and ran despite the hot, angry look on the man's face. Wheeling around the corner of the alley he saw Alastair shoving Krissy up against the bricks, one hand under her short skirt and the other holding her pinned by the throat. Without a second thought he'd thrown a punch, knocking the guy on his ass, snarling up a the two of them, eyes wild with fury. He'd grabbed Krissy and run, but when they hit the sidewalk, Jody and Victor were standing by their patrol car, lights flashing, with their arms crossed and shaking their heads at him.

 

Jody and Victor were good cops, most of the cops down at the South Boston Vice squad were, and they never treated Dean or any of the girls and guys working their beat like most cops would, like crap, like they were second class citizens just cause they made there money in a slightly less conventional way. When Dean got picked up, they always took decent care of him, joked and laughed with him and gave him food and a place to sleep when he didn't want to go home to the apartment and feel Sammy staring at him with those freak-of-nature puppy dog eyes.

 

When they'd made it back to the squad room, Jody had made a crack at him and shoved him through the doors affectionately as he'd laughed.

 

Then he'd seen him. Detective Novak. New guy, fresh outta uniform and Dean could practically see the squeaky clean of him as if you'd rub a finger against his skin and it would actually squeak. But in those deep blue eyes he'd seen just a _touch_ of something not so fresh, not so squeaky clean and Dean wanted to strip him down and find out what made this guy tick.

 

And he'd blushed at Dean, so fucking cute for a guy probably nearly twice his age, when Dean had flirted at him. But he really had been yummy. Oh yes. Dark stubble on his face and neck that probably never went away no matter how close he shaved, long hair that flopped over and brushed the tops of his ears when he'd run a hand through it, and he'd been all rumpled and adorable, but that shoulder holster had Dean thinking _very_ dirty thoughts that may have included him bent over and handcuffed on the hood of a squad car getting pounded by a blue eyed detective wearing only a worn leather holster and his gun.

 

He laid on the cot in his holding cell, with the flat pillow and blanket Victor had tossed him under his head, hands laced over his stomach and ankles crossed as he remembered how he had felt eyes on him the entire time he'd been sitting at the uniform's desk giving his statement, and how he still felt the tingle that had run through him when he'd turned around to see a hot gaze lock with his, curiosity and interest on that handsome face.

 

Dean sighed dreamily, maybe he'd try a little less hard to not get picked up from now on if he knew Novak was on shift.

 

 

 


	2. Modesty

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean gets tricked into going to church, runs into a regular, and finds an ally in an unlikely source.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> again, apologies to anyone who read the other version.   
> this one is *much* better :D

 

**mod·es·ty,** n. \ˈmä-də-stē\ 1.Humility: unwillingness to draw attention to your own achievements or abilities. 2. Sexual reserve: reserve in appearance, manner, and speech, especially in relation to sexual matters. 3. Shyness: lack of confidence or assertiveness, with a tendency to embarrass easily.

 

Dean stared up at the fortress of stone and stained glass, bastion of virtue and penance, and immediately felt betrayed.

 

He turned to Sam climbing out of the cab to stand beside him and glared. “This is _church_ , not breakfast Sam.” Sam had the grace to look guilty, but then _goddamn the kid_ he looked up at Dean with those infernal puppy-dog eyes (frankly, Dean thought it was going a little too far to throw in that tiny quiver of his lower lip. Any minute now one perfect, crystal tear would slide down that cheek and unicorns and kittens would fall down dead at the sight.) “Dean, there is gonna be breakfast! St. Brigid's is having their monthly pancake breakfast this morning.” Dean perked up a little, trying not to grumble at how easily pacified he was by the promise of free pancakes. Sam still seemed too...fidgety though, and his eyes narrowed. “What's the catch?” Sam laughed nervously. “Uhhhmmm...well firstwehavetogotoservicesandthenIvolunteeredustohelpout.” He groaned, loud enough that a few faces turned his way with disapproving stares as people entered the church. “Seriously, Sam?” The clothes that Sam had thrown at him when he'd been rudely awakened barely four hours after he'd fallen into bed made sense now. He'd been too tired at the time to question why he needed to wear his nicest khakis and a modest button-down just to go shove greasy diner food in his face, but as Sam blushed and tugged a coordinating tie from his pocket he knew he'd been tricked.

 

Dean rolled his eyes and slipped the tie around his neck. “Samuel Winchester, you are far too sneaky for your own good.” Sam gave him a lopsided grin, realizing that he was (mostly) off the hook. “So you've never been interested in church before, or at least I didn't know about it if you were. What's up with that?” Sam looked at his feet shyly. “Well, last week at school they posted some fliers about the pancake thing, and...Jesssaidshewasgonnabethere.” Dean could barely follow sometimes when Sam did his nervous I Don't Want to Tell You, So I'll Say it Real Fast routine, but he grinned when he heard the name of Sammy's little crush. “Aww, Sammy. Tryin' to impress the ladies?” Sam blushed red and shoved him and muttered “Jerk.” as he stomped up the front steps of the church.

Dean laughed and called out “Bitch!” to Sam's retreating back, but winced when a scandalized old lady gasped at him. With a sigh he made his way inside.

Those pancakes had better be worth it, he thought, 'cause he could already tell it was gonna be a long morning.

\- - -

Hours later (or so it seemed) Dean was trying not to pout as he dropped two perfect strips of bacon onto another plate of fluffy, golden pancakes that the endless line of parishioners held out in front of him. He was manning the Bacon Station of the long buffet table laden with steaming chafing dishes of breakfast foods. Sammy had disappeared to fawn over the sweet, curly-haired blonde helping her mother cook. He hoped to God they weren't letting that boy cook.

His shoulders twitched when he felt a drop of sweat roll down his back under the dress shirt. Between the plastic gloves, thick canvas apron and the heat of the kitchen rolling out into the wide community room, he was melting. After depositing yet more bacon on yet another plate with a smile, he wiped his brow with the sleeve of his shirt.

The man beside him blew out a puff of air that ruffled the shock of sweaty blond bangs that had slipped out from under his backwards Red Sox cap. Dean turned to look at the weirdest (and raddest) priest he'd ever met. Father Gabriel had led the services that morning with a sense of humor Dean would have figured a life of not getting laid ever would have broken a person of. Gabriel seemed well-liked among his flock, though Dean had caught more than one set of pursed stiff-upper-lips and incredulous eyebrows at some of the more risque jokes. The priest was in his now slightly wilted looking black shirt with collar, though he'd rolled his sleeves to his elbows before pulling on his own apron and gloves to dish out pancakes. Dean had snickered under his breath each time he snuck a pancake from the pile to shove in his mouth with the excuse that that particular pancake had been “defective.”

Gabriel smirked at him. “Hotter'n Hell, huh?” Dean laughed. “Oh man, yeah. I'm friggin' sweating like a whore in church.” As soon as the words left his mouth he snorted, snorts quickly blossoming into unsuccessfully held back giggles. The priest cocked an eyebrow at him as he burst into full out laughter. “Feel like sharin' that one with the class, kiddo?” Dean tried to get a handle on himself as a little old lady made her way to his station. He shook his head, breathless. “Nah...just...ironic.” Gabriel's head cocked just slightly to the side and Dean swallowed the last of his giggles to give the guy an almost bashful smile. The priest shrugged and turned back to snag another pancake.

When he looked back at Dean he was tearing the pancake into pieces to pop into his mouth. “You know, I don't think I've seen you around before. You lookin' to get some religion, or you just come for the free breakfast?” Dean blushed, and almost rubbed the back of his neck before he remembered his greasy gloves. “Sammy, my little brother, he kinda...tricked me into coming. Kid promised me breakfast and brought me to church instead.” Gabriel gasped mockingly. “This priest definitely does _not_ condone that sort of immoral behavior. Teasing a man with breakfast and making him sit through church first. Scamp.” Dean laughed. “That's my Sammy though. Kid probably thinks he's gonna try to save me.” Gabriel hummed contemplatively around his mouthful and Dean prayed that he wouldn't ask for details. Jesus...there was something wrong with his brain today. Damn near spilling his sad little guts to a _priest_? Of all people.

Suddenly there was someone in front of Dean and he looked up with a crooked grin as he tonged up another couple slices of bacon. He paled when he realized he recognized the dude standing there holding his plate out with a dumbstruck look on his face.

It was one of his regulars. From Crowley's.

Fuck.

The guy forced a frozen smile onto his face as he glanced around shiftily. Looking back to Dean he snarled underneath that rictus of a smile. “What the hell do you think you're doing here? Are you following me?” That broke the spell and Dean rolled his eyes at the guy's paranoia. “Just here volunteering with the good people of St. Brigid's, _sir_. Bacon?” The man sneered and declined. He was almost out of the way when he said nastily, “Nice apron.” Dean smiled sweetly and muttered, “Didn't bother you so much last week, _dear._ ” The man stopped his stride with a jerk, turning wide eyes to him. “What did you just say you little wh-”

“Hey Zach! How's it goin'? Hope the service was to your liking, though you always did kinda have a bit of a shit sense of humor, so I'm not holdin' my breath.” Gabriel cut in a hail-fellow-well-met tone that carried just the tiniest bite. The man scowled and turned on his heel, stomping his way over to a table with what looked like his family seated around it.

Dean blushed and looked at the priest next to him. Gabriel grumbled. “Zachariah Adler is a fuckin' creep. Bastard's a cop, too. Like a Captain or somethin'. Sorry if he was bothering you, he tries to out-dick anyone who dares have a good time at church.” Dean gaped. Who the hell _was_ this dude. He had never met a priest with this much attitude. Or that much of a mouth. Gabriel grinned and shoved a chunk of pancake into Dean's open mouth and he spluttered.

They went back to passing out food until Dean's stomach growled so hard he could feel it. The priest looked at him sympathetically. He elbowed Dean out of the line and shoved a plate in his hands, dropping not just two but _four_ slices of bacon next to the pancakes. “You. Go eat. People are gonna think your possessed by Famine or something.” Dean opened his mouth to protest and Gabriel stuffed bacon in this time. “Go. You have my blessing.” Dean almost choked on his bacon, laughing when the priest did a ridiculously theatrical sign of the cross. “Go forth and eat, my child.”

Dean laughed all the way to an empty table and sat, ready to dig in. As he cut through buttery, syrupy goodness his mind wandered to his encounter earlier with his regular, Zachariah.

Crossroads Entertainment had a system. A really fucking brilliant system designed by Crowley himself. Crowley set up all of his “dates” in the same hotel, giving the customers a swanky place to get their freak on, and he also got a kickback from the manager for renting out rooms regularly. Dean would get a call if he had a job, and the messenger service would give him a room number and the time the client would be arriving. He'd always show up about an hour early, stop by the front desk, chat with Andy the perpetually stoned concierge, and pick up a copy of the key card to the room. Once he got up to the room he'd find a neatly typed “order” for what he was being paid for that particular night, and he could prepare himself as needed. Sometimes, if the client wanted something specific, say a particular outfit, it would be sent ahead, and was found either folded neatly on the valet or hung in the closet for him to put on before his client showed up.

Zachariah was the type to want something specific. That something being he had a thing for having Dean dress up like some 1950's housewife in a Donna Reed dress, its little flouncy skirt that swung around his hips and thighs when he'd move around the room. He also liked Dean to wear a pretty white hostess' apron, a string of pearls (fake, of course, paranoid bastard), and sturdy little white pumps. Underneath the dress he was always given a pair of satiny white high-waisted panties and a utilitarian garter belt with nude stockings that always itched his legs a little. If he'd cared to, he could have brought his own stockings from home, they were way nicer and didn't feel like they'd been bought at CVS in one of those little plastic eggs.

Twenty minutes before Zachariah arrived, room service would be delivered, and Dean would set it up in the little kitchenette as if he'd slaved over a hot stove all day to cook it. He'd also lay out a pair of slippers next to the bed and that day's newspaper that was sent along with dinner. Finally, Dean would situate himself on his knees, hands folded demurely in his lap with his head bowed, waiting for his “husband” to come “home.”

Zachariah would come in the door, grunt approvingly at Dean and set his things down. Then he'd hold down a hand, indicating for Dean to stand so that he could accept a kiss on the cheek. He would sit himself down at the little dining room table and Dean would bring him a plate. Cheap bastard only ever bought dinner for himself, and would sit there eating it as Dean fixed him a drink, and returned to his kneeling position next to the man's chair.

When he was finished, he'd wipe his mouth, and push back from the table to go to the bed. Sitting down on the edge, Dean knew to be right there to slip off his shoes and socks and fit the slippers onto Zachariah's feet. He'd wait, kneeling on the floor again (it was a damn miracle he didn't end up with giant runs in his stockings at the end of every night) while the man read his newspaper in silence.

Finally, the paper would be laid down and Dean would slip between his opened thighs to slide the zipper of his slacks down, pull the man's unimpressive dick out and suck like his life depended on it. He always kept his eyes averted until he was told other wise, usually right when Zachariah tugged his head back in order to shoot his come on Dean's face. At this point the night was always almost over and Dean rolled his eyes internally as he said his little scripted line, just the same way every time. He'd look up at Zachariah, meeting the man's eyes for the first time during the whole...thing, and say sweetly, “Thank you, dear.”

Zachariah would tuck himself back in, pat Dean on the head, and then gather up his things and go. It was the same _every_ time. No deviation. It was fucking boring as hell, but it paid and he didn't end up going home or to the next client aching like he did with some guys. As far as he was concerned, he was perfectly ok with the arrangement. Dude got his Leave It To Beaver jollies off and Dean got paid.

Dean startled when a body dropped heavily into the seat across from his. He looked up from his nearly empty plate to find unique golden eyes peering at him like he wanted to peel him apart layer by layer until he got to the Tootsie Roll center. “Somethin' eatin' at ya, Deano? You've seemed a little distracted since that shit with Adler." Gabriel leaned over his plate and scooped up a soggy piece of pancake and ate it. Dean snorted again and muttered “Yeah well I can't blame the guy for freaking out. Most dudes don't expect to see their paid side pieces when they're at church with the Missus.” Dean nearly bit his tongue off and felt like he was going to hurl. Why the living _fuck_ had he just said that?!

Strangely enough, the priest's expression only grew more concerned. “You're one of Crowley's, aren't you?” He said softly. Dean's jaw dropped so far it almost ended up in a puddle of syrup. “Wha...? How..?” Gabriel waved it off. “I wasn't always a perfect little boy Dean. I grew up in a tough town, full of tough people. Crowley was one of 'em. I know what he does.” Dean started to hyperventilate and was contemplating how fast he could get the hell out of there when Gabriel laid a hand on his fingers clenched around the plastic fork. “I'm not judging kid. Obviously you feel like you have to do that shit for a reason, and I'm not gonna try to save you with the power of God. Sometimes I think the old bastard's checked out, and left all of us to clean up his messes. God can't pull you out of a shitty home, or put food on the table for that sweet, giant brother of yours. But what _I_ can do, is offer you support. I can't give ya money, 'cause the Pope might look down on that particular expense report, but I can be there when you need to freak out. I can offer you a place to get your shit together if you have a bad night, hell, you can cry on me if you need to, though I don't suggest it. Do you know how much of a pain in the ass it is to starch your shirts by yourself? A big fuckin' pain, lemme tell ya. Also, I got a baby brother on the force, Vice specifically, and that's a resource, too. You ever need help, you got me, and you got him. Deal?”

Dean was speechless. Absolutely fucking speechless. When Gabriel just looked at him with a raised eyebrow and a neutral expression, he babbled out a shy “Thank you.”

Just then Sam lumbered up to the table with a cheesy grin on his face. Gabriel looked up (and up) and smiled at Sam. “Hey, kiddo. Just getting to know Dean here. Anyway, I gotta get back, help those lovely ladies in the kitchen.” He ruffled a hand through Sam's hair and held out a hand for Dean. He squeezed his fingers subtly when they shook. “You two feel free to come back anytime, there's always room here for people in need of something.” The tone was cheerful, but Dean knew it was aimed right at him. He blushed and nodded, turning back to snatch up his plate and hustled Sam off to the trashcans.

Gabriel's words rolled around and around in his head during the entire cab ride home. When he finally collapsed face-first onto his bed he couldn't help but get the feeling that maybed he'd found an ally in the last place he'd ever thought to look.

 

 


	3. Kindness

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean is standing in line at a cafe getting coffee for Cas two days after their encounter in the alley. Because he doesn't care. Nope.
> 
> Also, Gabriel plays secret matchmaker, and plotty things make a cameo.

 

**kind-ness** , n. \'kin(d)-nes\ 1. Ability to behave kindly: the practice of being or the tendency to be sympathetic and compassionate. 2. Compassionate act: an act that shows consideration and caring.   

 

Dean stood in line at Tessie's cafe waiting for the grande Americano he'd ordered, absently scratching the back of his calf with the toe of his boot.

 

Two days after having insane sex in an alley with the ridiculously attractive Detective Novak, he was still feeling a little on the dazed side. Pissed at losing out on the money the threesome with the hot touristy couple would have earned, he'd snarked at Cas, never expecting the cop to track him down, let alone try to shove nearly six hundred bucks into his hand and walk off as if it were nothing.

 

His little meltdown had taken them both by surprise. He'd had people try to save him before, well-meaning johns who wanted the self-righteous power trip of rescuing some kid from the streets, and he'd always blown it off with a wink and a grin. Cas though, Cas was different somehow. He'd offered the money because he didn't want Dean to earn it on his back for one night. It had been too much, too much money, too much shame, just too fucking much. He'd learned the hard way that you don't get something for nothing, and this threatened to upset the careful balance of his pride.

 

Afterward, trying to hide shaky legs and a stupid sense of longing, he'd followed the cop to his car, out of sight of course. Wouldn't do to have anyone think he actually cared if the guy made it to his car alright. He'd never cared before, wanted to be as far from anyone who'd paid him for his body as he could, as soon as he could. So why the fuck had he itched with the desire to call Cas back, run to his arms like some lovesick asshole and kiss that shocked, “what the fuck did I just do” look off of his face.

 

He'd peeked around the corner of the alley to see Cas in a frigging gorgeous midnight blue Torino having what looked exactly like a panic attack. Christ, the guy was complicated. Dean noticed the rosary beads on the rearview, the Virgin Mary on the dash like mob dudes in 70's classic movies had and wondered if he was having some kind of Catholic guilt crisis of faith. Maybe it had been his first time with a guy and he was freaking out. The church didn't exactly approve of that kind of thing.

 

For some reason, it had made Dean feel incredibly guilty. Like he'd corrupted the guy with his dirty whore ways. Mostly he just felt...empty inside now. Maybe a little hurt, if he was feeling honest with himself. Cas had just spent the better part of twenty minutes pounding him into a wall and then went off and quietly spazzed in his car. Would he go to confession now? Tell some priest that he was sorry he'd done it and he'd never do it again, that he'd been led to temptation and given in to a moment of weakness?

 

Thinking of priests and confession, he'd thought about Gabriel, and his offer, and without realizing it, he'd ended up on the sidewalk in front of the little brick rectory behind St. Brigid's at one thirty in the morning ringing the doorbell. After a minute he'd started to feel like a total idiot and turned to go, when the front light flicked on and the door cracked open. “Dean?” The blond priest had poked his disheveled head out of the opening and blinked at him, worry quickly replacing the sleepiness in his face. “Dean, do you need help?”

 

Dean had blushed and shoved his hands in his pockets. “I...no, not help I guess...I just...” Why the hell _had_ he gone there. Gabriel had huffed and opened the door wider, motioning him inside. “In with you. C'mon.” Dean hesitated, and then slipped in past the priest, eyes on his feet and cheeks burning. Gabriel had patted his shoulder and moved further into the house, heading for a small kitchen where he pulled down two jelly jar glasses and a bottle of Jameson and set them on the little two-seater table in the corner. With a cocked eyebrow he sat and poured two fingers of amber liquor into each. Dean took the chair opposite and just...well, stared would be the polite way to put it.

 

There was a Catholic priest sitting across from him at a scarred but well-loved dinette table in a ratty black velour bathrobe open over a white wife beater and fire-engine red silk boxer shorts drinking whiskey. And Dean was still dressed in his stupid club outfit, feeling totally ridiculous.

 

Gabriel sipped from a glass with Tom and Jerry on it and looked right back. He sighed and rolled his eyes heavenward before dropping his gaze back to Dean. “You gonna sit there like a lump and ignore my old fashioned Irish hospitality kiddo, or you gonna have a drink and tell me what's goin' on?”

 

Dean cleared his throat and tried to clear his head. “Uh...well...I don't drink actually. My old man was an alcoholic, ended up wrapped around a tree one night he had too many. So...thanks for the drink, but no thanks.” Gabriel shrugged and snagged the Roadrunner glass in front of Dean and dumped it into his own.

 

“So...what's the what, Deano? Cause I gotta tell ya, this ain't exactly the hour for social calls.” Golden-brown eyes narrowed. “You ok? Need me to set up the couch for the night for ya?”

 

Dean took a deep breath and blew it out hard. “Look...I don't know exactly why I came here, I just...I don't really have anyone to talk to about...ya'know...what I do, and I had kind of a weird night.” He looked up at Gabriel and found the priest giving him a “go on” face. “So I had sex with someone and he- _they_ -” Gabriel snorted. “I don't care who you fuck kiddo. God doesn't either by the way.” He then made a rolling hand motion signaling Dean to continue. “Fine. _He_ tried to just give me money, cause he's a nice guy, and I'm apparently a total freak, and I couldn't take money for nothin'. I thought it was ok, but now I feel like a piece of shit and he was spazzing out in his car talking to a friggin' Virgin Mary statue.” He said it in a rush, looking anywhere but at the priest. When he raised his burning face back up Gabriel had a strange look on his face, not disgusted or disapproving, more like...intrigued by Dean's story.

 

He nodded, thinking. “So what made this time different than any other time?” Gabriel asked perceptively. Dean shrugged, scratching the side of his nose. “I dunno...Cas is...he's _good_ , ya'know...and I'm...” Gabriel's eyes softened. “You like him. This _Cas_.” There was a little secretive smirk on the priest's face and Dean frowned. “I don't...I mean...even if I did, I'm just some kid who fucks for money, and no respectable _anything_ is gonna wanna be with me for longer than it takes to get off.” Gabriel tossed back his drink in one gulp and hissed slightly as it went down. “Look here kiddo. You do what you think you have to do, but it doesn't define who you are. Maybe give yourself a chance to want something for yourself, maybe give this Cas guy a chance. Could surprise you.” The priest nodded sagely, but the grin threw it all off.

 

Dean laughed, only a little bitter, feeling better despite himself. Yeah, sure. He'd ask Cas out for coffee, maybe a movie. In Kansas. Cause there was no way in hell an upstanding cop would ever risk being seen in public with a freakin' hooker. Fucking in back alleys, maybe, but anything else? Right.

 

Dean shook his head and laughed again at the thought. Gabriel rounded up the glasses and rinsed them off in the sink, leaving them to dry in the drainer. Dean stood and shuffled his feet. “Well...thanks for...whatever this was. I mean it. But I should probably get home.” Gabriel turned and regarded him, arms crossed over his chest. “No problem, kiddo. Though I'm tired as fuck, and the good people of South Boston are gonna be descending on St. Brigid's in a couple hours, so lemme walk you out.” Dean immediately felt guilty again and opened his mouth to apologize. Gabriel cut him off before he could even get a word out. “I'm serious, it's not a problem. I told you that you could come to me if you needed it, and you did. Ain't nothin' to feel guilty about.”

 

Gabriel laid a hand on his back and nudged him in the direction of the door. “Nice outfit by the way. Could really use some pigtails though, for the authentic Catholic schoolgirl vibe.” Dean gave him an incredulous look and then snorted. The door opened and he was on the front stoop when the priest called out to him. “You really should give that guy a chance, if you like him. Never know, destiny works in mysterious ways. Night, Deano.”

 

Gabriel winked and closed the door before Dean could come up with a response. He'd walked home in the relative quiet of the night and let the thought of “giving Cas a chance” go. No use getting his hopes up just to get his heart trampled on. Not that he cared.

 

Which totally makes sense why he's standing here in this coffee shop waiting for the coffee he ordered for Cas. Because he didn't care. Wasn't like he was going to hang out outside the station house until Cas came in and give him the coffee. Cause he didn't care. It was Cas' money paying for it anyway. So...justified, right?

 

The pretty blonde chick behind the counter called his name and he took the steaming hot cup with a grin and a thank you and wound his way through the tables, aiming for the door.

 

Just as he was about there, he saw two men at a corner table talking in hushed tones. One of the guys he knew, or recognized from the station as Cas' partner Uriel. The other guy, well, Dean must have dark hair and blue eyes on the brain today, cause he could have sworn for a second he looked exactly like an older, more devious version of Cas.

 

He shrugged and pushed out of the shop with a sigh, it was just coffee. It didn't mean anything.

 

Nope.

 

 


	4. Generosity

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean realizes something about himself after the tryst at Cas' apartment and meets another unlikely ally one night at work. Will he take advantage of the new opportunity he never expected to get?

**gen-er-os-i-ty** , _n_ , \je-ne-ra-se-te\ 1. The quality of being kind, understanding, and not selfish. 2. The quality of being generous. 3. Willingness to give money and other valuable things to others.

 

It took Dean almost exactly one week to realize he was completely, unutterably fucked beyond belief. Six days, eleven hours and twenty-four, no wait, twenty-five minutes had passed since Cas had dropped him off in front of the hotel and he hadn't been able to scrub the bitter, _hurt_ look on the detective's face from his memory.

 

He had woken sweaty and achingly hard, trying to shake off the cobweb-sticky residue of dreams of Cas above him, eyes blazing as he fucked Dean into a lumpy brown couch like he was on a mission from God. Dreams of waking safe and warm and _wanted_ in the man's bed, tangled in sheets that smelled like bargain detergent and Old Spice.

 

Worse yet, he caught himself brushing his fingertips over his lips, too many times to count, trying to banish the feeling of Cas' lips on his in a kiss that felt like he was being claimed, possessed, shoved up against a door with peeling paint and a busted peephole.

 

Six days, eleven hours and twenty-six minutes between that day and today, and Dean knew.

 

He was falling, plummeting really, 1500 feet per minute without a parachute into stupid, foolish love for a stupid blue-eyed detective nearly twice his age with a hero complex that would put the Dark Knight to shame.

 

And fuck all if it didn't piss him right the hell off. This wasn't the freaking movies. Wasn't some goddamn supermarket bodice-ripper. Whores don't have the luxury of falling in love, because who would want them without being entirely fucked up themselves? _He_ didn't have the luxury, because God knew, even if, and it was an Empire State Building sized If, Castiel was feeling anything beyond a hard-on and a skewed sense of protectiveness, it would only be a matter of time before he demanded Dean quit working the streets or worse, tried to provide for him so he wouldn't have to hustle cash for a living.

 

No one in their right mind would want him as is. Least of all Cas.

 

That thought hurt the worst.

 

He rolled over onto his side between his threadbare sheets and let the silent tears he would deny until the end of his days fall onto the pillow. He had about half an hour to get his shit together before Sammy would be up and getting ready for school, and he didn't want to miss out on a minute of whatever time they were able to spend together because he was moping like a girl.

 

Best to get it out of his system now, because he would be spending the day begging the landlord to give him another few days to get the rent paid (hopefully not on his knees), mending the holes in Sam's nearly-too-short jeans trying to make them last another few months, and using the measly twenty bucks in his wallet to get as much food as he could.

 

Tonight he had to work. He'd been off his game the entire week, and his empty pockets showed it.

 

Damn that gorgeous asshole. He had to think about Sam, he should always think about Sam, first and foremost, not spending his every waking moment thinking about the way for one tiny minute, he'd felt like he belonged somewhere, deserved a life of soft sheets and arms that held him close. It was a pipe-dream and nothing more. Sammy was what was important, and he'd let his focus slip.

 

It was time to quit dreaming.

 

Time to wake up.

 

o-o-o

 

By nine o-clock that night, early by Dean's standards, he'd earned enough cash to cover the cable bill, the rising electric bill, and was only a few hundred short of having enough for rent. The after work crowd was always a little bit of a gamble, most guys in their suits stopping for a quick handjob on the way home to the wife and kids were stingy bastards, and Dean always managed to get the ones who wanted to haggle, but he'd gotten lucky today.

 

Despite all of his luck, there was a dark cloud hanging over him. Between johns Dean had spent time talking with the others who were working the block alongside him and he'd found out that not everyone had been quite so lucky. Another girl had disappeared the night before, and they all knew who had done it, even if no one was saying it. If there was a God, she'd show up in a few days a little worse for wear but alive. But Dean had a sick feeling in the pit of his stomach that the next time anyone saw her it would be when they found her body.

 

Now he was back at the hotel, trussed up in some ridiculous leatherman outfit straight out of a bad porno waiting for his only client of the night and feeling like an enormous tool with his leather hat, bondage halter and sin tight black leather pants. He hadn't been left any real instructions other than to wear the outfit, so he figured the guy wasn't exactly sure what he wanted. Some days Dean liked the ones who wanted to play around, weren't so particular about whatever fantasy they'd dreamed up, and sometimes he even had a good time with it.

 

Tonight, he really just wanted to get down to it and go home, hopefully in time to say goodnight to his brother.

 

He threw on a generic charming grin, interpretable in a hundred different ways, and rested his hands palms down on the soft leather of his slightly spread thighs when he heard the telltale beep of the keycard lock disengaging and the metallic turning of the handle as the door opened.

 

A scruffy looking guy who looked like he'd gone five rounds with a bottle of Jack and lost stood in the open doorway with a facial expression frozen somewhere in between embarrassed/eager and massively confused. He blinked at Dean and backed out of the room, closing the door partway as if he were looking for the room number on the door for confirmation.

 

The confusion was definitely more pronounced when he stepped inside and closed the door slowly, like he was terrified to let it close. Internally Dean rolled his eyes. He hoped to fuck that this guy wasn't a first timer.

 

The guy's white knuckled grip on his briefcase looked painful and his mouth opened and closed a few times without anything coming out. Dean smiled, trying to reassure him before he bolted and took his money with him. “Everything alright, sir?”

 

The man looked at his watch and then looked back to Dean. “Uh...You're not Mistress Magda.” He stammered. “I mean unless you a-are,” He tried to politely grimace. “But really I was kind of e-expecting a little bit more...er.” He held cupped palms out in front of his chest in what Dean assumed was an imitation of breasts and an ugly flush crept around the patchy beard on his cheeks.

 

Dean's smile lost some wattage and he shook his head, “No, I'm Dean. I may not have that kind of equipment, but I can promise you'll have such a good time you won't even miss 'em.” Dean threw the guy a flirty wink, but he could already feel that something was up and it wasn't anything fun.

 

The man shuffled his feet on the carpet and turned his eyes to the ceiling like he was asking for divine assistance. When he looked back to Dean he looked almost apologetic and Dean frowned. “I'm not what you wanted, am I?” He had to hold back the bitter laugh. God, there was a lot of _that_ going around lately.

 

The man shook his head. “No, not really. I mean...not that you don't seem like a great guy, but I...I don't really swing that way. Not since college anyway.” The flush came back with a vengeance and Dean would have laughed if he wasn't already trying to figure out how to make up the $500 commission he should have earned from tonight. So much for getting home to Sammy before he went to bed.

 

He got up from the chair with a sigh and headed toward the bathroom to change. “I get it dude, you aren't into dick. It happens. Sometimes wires get crossed and the wrong people get booked. Let me change and I'll give the messaging service a call and let them know you either need a refund or a replacement.” Dean tried to keep his voice cheerful, but it came out wooden. He didn't turn to look back at the guy before he closed the bathroom door and started wiggling his way out of all that stupid black leather.

 

Back in his street clothes of tight ripped jeans stuffed into his combat boots, fishnet muscle tank and unbuttoned red flannel, Dean came out of the little room and was almost surprised to see the guy still there, sitting on the edge of the bed with elbows resting on his knees and chin propped on his fists. He looked up when Dean came out and he flashed his default grin, even if it was a little less impressive than usual. Dean hung the outfit back in the closet to be picked up later and slipped his phone from his pocket as he came to stand by the kitchenette counter. “Ok, so what should I tell 'em? You want them to send someone else or just have your money refunded?”

 

When there was no immediate response Dean looked up from where he'd been scrolling his contacts for the number and found the man still sitting in the same position, but his eyes were narrowed in consideration of something. Dean picked up the order sheet from the counter beside him and checked the man's name. “Carver?” Still no response. “Carver?” He said a little louder and the guy jumped a little and looked at Dean with embarrassment.

 

“Ha. I forgot I used that name. No one ever calls me that out loud, sorry.” Dean raised an eyebrow but let it go, wasn't the first time a john had used a fake name when booking a “date.” Carver bit at his lip and Dean was about to repeat his earlier question when he turned curious/concerned eyes his way.

 

“Dean? It's Dean, right?” Dean nodded. “How old are you, Dean?”

 

Dean shifted a little uncomfortably. What the hell was going on? “Um. I'm 19.”

 

Carver shook his head and seemed to make up his mind. “Why exactly do you do this?”

 

Dean snorted. “You mean besides the sheer joy I get from serving the community?” Carver shook his head. “Well, fuck man. That's a pretty fucking personal question, don't you think?”

 

Carver grimaced again, rubbed his hand on the back of his neck. “Look, I know it isn't any of my business. Least of all because of the reason I came here in the first place. But...you're just a kid. I teach kids older than you, and I couldn't imagine any of them here, in this situation, and not being completely broken.” He sounded almost sad.

 

Now Dean did roll his eyes. “First of all, not everyone gets to go to college, or hell, even entertain the fantasy of it. I do what I do because I got a little brother who deserves to have a different life than I did. He deserves to go to school and go on field trips and dream about going to college one day the way I never got to.” He crossed his arms over his chest, folded in on himself, feeling just a little raw. He'd never felt the need to share crap. Besides, he wasn't _broken_ just because he was a whore. Dented a little, maybe he'd had to buff out some deep scrapes here and there, but he wasn't broken. “Okay, enough with the 20 questions. What do you want me to tell the service? I can't wait here all night if you aren't paying.”

 

Carver rubbed his mouth, thinking. “Don't call. I'll pay you for your time.” He nodded.

 

Dean huffed. “You can't just _do_ that! I'm not some charity case. Jesus, what is it with men lately. Sorry pal, I don't need another Richard Gere.”

 

Carver's jaw firmed up surprisingly and crossed his arms. “Dean, come on. I'll even give you something to do so you don't feel like you're getting something for nothing. You'll stay for the two hours, and I swear that by the time you're done you'll have earned it.”

 

Dean cocked his head a little as he looked at the man and narrowed his eyes in suspicion. “What do you want me to do?”

 

o-o-o

 

“Wait, wait, wait! So you're telling me people actually believe that Tolkien got the idea for 'Rings' because he met an _elf_ in the woods and it told him about Middle Earth?” Dean was sprawled out on his stomach on the fussy beige duvet with Carver next to his feet at the head of the bed with a pair of reading glasses perched on his nose, both with a stack of papers in front of them.

 

The task that Carver had given him was helping the professor grade about two months worth of exams and papers for his various English and Creative Writing courses. Dean had tackled the exams, because he could figure out easily enough with Carver's corrected copy which were correct answers. He didn't want to risk grading papers on subjects he knew shit about. Halfway through the job, Carver had asked him if he like to read, and Dean had reluctantly admitted to his love of sci-fi and fantasy novels, even though he didn't get a ton of time to do it.

 

That had turned into a reminiscence of Dean reading 'The Hobbit' and 'Lord of the Rings' for the first time in the backseat of his dad's Impala as they drove from base to base, and both books, and the universe found inside them had become an escape from life on the road with an alcoholic father slowly dying from grief.

 

Carver sniffed and took a swig from one of the mini bottles of vodka he'd found when he'd raided the mini-bar. “Belief in the supernatural isn't such a stretch, Dean. Most all of histories mythical monsters and creatures have some sort of basis in fact.” He belched and scribbled something on the paper he was reading. “But, personally, I'm more likely to believe the theory that the story was a creative perspective on the war ravaging Great Britain at the time rather than an elvish expose.”

 

Dean laughed and finished marking the exam he'd been looking over, and peeked at his watch. “Oh hey, crap! It's past eleven! We should probably get outta here before they come to make sure no one murdered anyone.” He jumped up off the mattress and tugged his clothes back into place before tapping the pile of papers into a neat square.

 

Carver smiled at him and took the stack. “Thanks for this, Dean. My students were probably going to start rioting soon, you did me a huge favor.”

 

Deans grin only slipped a little and he shrugged. “You paid for it man. One of the more pleasant ways I've spent time in this hotel, so yeah. Don't mention it.”

 

Carver packed up his briefcase and shook his head. “You know, kid. You're so much smarter than you give yourself credit for. I would love to have someone with half your enthusiasm in one of my classes. Huh.” His face turned serious for a moment and then he reached inside his rumpled brown blazer and dug out a business card. “If you ever feel like trying something new, come see me. You have no idea how much money they'd throw at you for scholarships.” He smirked and waved as he opened the front door. “Thanks again, Dean.”

 

He left Dean staring down at the little card with a baffled expression on his face. On the plain white cardstock were the words: Chuck Shurley, PhD, English Dept. Boston College.

 

When his senses finally came back he crumpled the card in his hand. There was no way. He couldn't go to college, who would take care of Sam? With a frustrated curse meant for the professor, Dean huffed and stomped for the door. On his way out of the lobby he nodded to Andy and went to drop the card into the trash can standing by the front entrance.

 

At the last second he stopped, but clenched his fingers harder around it, gritting his teeth.

 

He'd fucking regret it, he knew, but he did what he could to smooth the creases from it and slipped it into his back pocket as he shoved the door open onto the chilly Boston night.

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> finally caught up on Virtues! Who's ready for some Vices?!


	5. Temperance

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> “Does this sudden itch to leave the life behind have anything to do with Detective Tall and Dark?”
> 
> Dean started, his eyes popping wide. “What do you know about Cas?” He blushed hard when Inias' smirk turned smug. “I mean-”
> 
> “I know that he comes in here every couple of days looking for you, asking if you've been in.” Dean felt something warm and tight clench in his chest. Inias laid a hand on his where he'd been shredding his cocktail napkin and smiled softly. “I also know that once you're in love with a guy, you're allowed to give him your number.”
> 
> Dean groaned, burying his face in his arms. Inias patted his shoulder sympathetically.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warnings** for heavy alcohol use as a coping mechanism, mild depictions of violence, and a mention of drug use/addiction.

 

**tem-per-ance** _ n.  _ \tem-per-en(t)s\ 1. moderation in action, thought, or feeling. 2. a. habitual moderation in the indulgence of the appetites or passions. b. moderation in or abstinence from the use of alcoholic beverages.

 

Dean was sitting at the very end of the bar at the Roadhouse, idly drawing patterns on the wood with the condensation from his glass of lime and tonic, chin propped on the fist of his other hand. He was supposed to be working, trawling for johns among the sweaty crowd of over-indulgers, but it was getting harder and harder to paste on an enticing smile and ply his charms now. So there he sat, more than a little lost in his own head.

 

Typically the Roadhouse and bars like it were prime pickings. Most all of the men he pulled were clean and just looking for fun, rather than dirty and creepy like the men who picked him up off the street.

 

These days though, none of them seemed worth it. None of them were the one he wanted.

 

On a good night he was able to stomach going off with one or two of them, and if he was lucky he'd even be able to detach enough to pretend that it was Cas pushing into him, using his mouth. His wallet was lighter than ever, but if it weren't for Sammy depending on him, he wouldn't be out here at all.

 

All he wanted was to be curled up in bed so he could remember how he'd felt that morning when he'd woken up wrapped up in Cas. He'd turned in the man's arms and kissed him awake, his cock sliding with delicious rough friction against Cas'.

 

He was so tired of pretending he didn't want Cas, so tired of hiding himself. He wanted everything Cas could give him, but he had no idea how to tell him. So he'd let his body do the talking his mouth couldn't.

 

They'd rocked together, slow and unhurried, Cas' lips warm and smooth against him where he kissed his face and neck and shoulders. Cas held him close as he'd come with something embarrassingly close to a sob over the other man's stomach, and he'd crawled down Cas' body, his own limbs heavy with pleasure to take him in his mouth and savored the flood of release and the fingers in his hair when Cas followed soon after.

 

He'd never felt anything remotely like that before, and it terrified him how badly he wanted it again. It was dangerous, giving in to it. Made him vulnerable, put the ammunition right into the gun and put it in someone else's hands. But it was all he could think of anymore.

 

A fresh glass of tonic and artfully arranged lime wedge was plunked down in front of him and he looked up to see Inias giving him a curious, amused look.

 

“Honey, do you have any idea how many guys have been trying to get your attention tonight? Pensive and moody might be your new angle.” He chuckled.

 

Dean looked over his shoulder, catching a few interested gazes. With a sigh he turned back to his friend. “Nias? What made you decide to get out of the game?”

 

Inias' eyebrows raised in surprise, but his expression turned contemplative. “You remember when I started working here?”

 

Dean nodded. Inias had been out on the streets once upon a time, same as Dean. He was one of the few he knew of who'd ever made it out completely.

 

Inias turned away briefly to pour a drink for a clean-cut guy in a suit down the bar. When he came back he looked serious. “I never told anyone this, but I was hooked on Percocet, was actually the reason I ended up on the street in the first place. One night I had a date that got really rough. He left me bleeding and unconscious behind this place, and I was so out of it I had no idea where I was. The owner, Bobby, he found me, practically hidden behind the dumpster, and he took me in and fixed me up.” A fond smile crossed his face. “Bobby tends to do that, you know? Pick up strays. He offered me a place to stay and told me he'd give me a job if I got clean and stopped hooking. I've been here ever since.” His mouth turned down in a tiny frown. “Why do you ask? Are you looking to get out?”

 

Dean sat there stunned. Maybe...maybe there was hope that he could get out, too.

 

Inias smirked a little and leaned in to speak in a low, private tone. “Does this sudden itch to leave the life behind have anything to do with Detective Tall and Dark?”

 

Dean started, his eyes popping wide. “What do you know about Cas?” He blushed hard when Inias' smirk turned smug. “I mean-”

 

“I know that he comes in here every couple of days looking for you, asking if you've been in.” Dean felt something warm and tight clench in his chest. Inias laid a hand on his where he'd been shredding his cocktail napkin and smiled softly. “I also know that once you're in love with a guy, you're allowed to give him your number.”

 

Dean groaned, burying his face in his arms. Inias patted his shoulder sympathetically.

 

\- - -

 

Two nights later Dean was exhausted, and he still had one client yet. He'd tried to stay focused on his priority of earning enough cash to cover everything he needed to this week, but his mind wandered enough that he'd had a few complaints.

 

He showered off quickly, grateful for the special soap the service sent along that washed away every trace of the client he'd just sent off. Some men got off on knowing he'd been with other men, but most wanted to pretend Dean was all theirs.

 

He wrapped himself in the plush bathrobe hanging on the back of the door and was about to rummage through the mini-fridge to see if Andy'd left him any goodies when his phone went off. He frowned when he saw the service's number on the screen. His next client wasn't due for another half hour, and by the time they would finish it'd be almost three in the morning. He hoped to God they weren't calling him with another client.

 

He thumbed the call button and raised the phone to his ear. “Dean.”

 

“Change of plans. Your client's been transferred to someone else. You've got a new client on his way now, should be there momentarily. You'd better be a good boy, too, this one requested you by name.”

 

Dean snorted. “Hello to you, too, Meg. I'm doing lovely, thank you for asking.”

 

He could practically hear her sneer over the phone. Meg was the late night operator at the service and she and Dean had never exactly gotten along.

 

“Shut up cupcake, and play nice tonight.” She hung up with a click and he stared at his phone nonplussed.

 

Alright then. So much for a quick nap before his next client got here. Meg hadn't left him any instructions, so he assumed this guy just wanted the standard tumble. Easy enough. He wondered who would be asking for him by name out of the blue. Most of his regulars kept to a relatively predictable schedule.

 

Dean had enough time to eat a banana and a bag of mixed bar nuts in warp speed before a thud sounded outside of the door, as if someone or something had slammed against it. He heard the sound of fumbling with the handle, a low curse aimed at the card reader when it beeped indicating the card had been misread.

 

He rolled his eyes and waited. He would be so lucky to get some drunk asshole stumbling into the room. They were the most unpredictable of them all.

 

The door finally wrenched open and Dean gaped in mounting horror when it revealed none other than Detective Castiel Novak.

 

A drunk off of his ass, bleary-eyed and disheveled Castiel Novak.

 

Cas tripped over his own feet and Dean was across the room, arms out as the man lurched into him. 

“Dean!” Cas kissed him sloppily and Dean was too shocked to make his mouth move. Cas wrapped his arms around him and swayed, face crushed against Dean's neck.

 

Dean maneuvered Cas backward toward the bed and sat him on the edge, going to his knees in front of Cas, holding his head up cupped between Dean's hands.

 

“Cas, man. What are you doing here?” Jesus, how much had he had to drink? The smell of malt liquor nearly made his eyes water it was so strong.

 

“Hadda...hadda see you. Hafta tell you something.” Dean tried not to look as terrified as he felt.

 

“What? What do you need to tell me? What's wrong?” He stroked his hand through Cas' hair as he watched the man try to focus his eyes on Dean's face.

 

“Hadda tell you what a piece of shit I am. No good for you, Dean.” He slurred desolately.

 

Cas' face scrunched up in a frown when Dean laughed. “Don' laugh at me. M'serious.”

 

Dean swallowed the laugh. “Sure you are. Okay then. Tell me why you, Mr. Fine Upstanding Officer of the Law is no good for Dean Winchester the whore.”

 

Cas growled. “Don' talk 'bout yourself like that. Mean it.”

 

Cas reached out and pulled him in against his chest, face in Dean's neck again, and breathed deep. A wistful little sigh sent hot, wet breath skating over his ear. “My bed doesn't smell like you anymore. Hate it. Want you in my bed every night. Want you with me.”

 

Dean's heart pounded and he barely managed to tamp down the panic reeling through him. He leaned back enough to look at Cas. His eyes were squeezed shut, pain clearly evident on his face. Dean brushed his thumb over Cas' cheek. “What's wrong, baby? What happened?”

 

Cas choked out a sob. “Kid died tonight. Drug raid gone bad. Pointed a gun at me. I-” Another wracking sob. “Killed him, Dean. He wouldn't put the fuckin' gun down, dammit. N'he was layin' there after, fuck he was so young. Looked like he was asleep. Just like- just like Alfie did. Killed him too, I think. My fault.”

 

Dean felt a stab of pain through his own chest when Cas keened low and mournful. Dean gathered him close in his arms and gently laid him back on the bed, crawling to lay beside him as he murmured soothing nonsense and held him as he cried.

 

“It's alright. Shh. C'mon, love it'll be alright.”

 

Cas' arms tightened around his back. “Not alright. You don't know anything 'bout me. Want you to. But you won't want me anymore if I tell you.”

 

“Cas." His voice was soft as he brushed sweaty hair off of Cas' forehead. "I don't think there's anything you could tell me that would make me not want you.” It was muffled from where his face was pressed into the top of Cas' head, but the man turned to look at him sharply, eyes clearing for a moment before the haze of alcohol rolled back over them.

 

Cas took a deep breath, clearly gearing up to say something. Dean waited.

 

“You know the Novaks?” Dean looked up at him, confused. Cas nodded. “I'm one of _those_ Novaks. Grew up, stupid rich kid thinkin' the world owed him somethin'. Did Daddy's dirty work and fuckin' loved it. Then one night some dirtbag just like me gunned down my baby brother in the street and I couldn't do nothin'. Just stood there an' watched.” Cas' eyes closed again and tears leaked out of the corners of his eyes, trailing down to disappear in his hair. 

 

Dean felt helpless. He had no idea what to do, what to say. He didn't know how he would ever survive if something like that had happened to Sammy. It would break him.

 

He looked up at Cas. Maybe Cas was broken inside. Maybe that's why he drowned himself in alcohol whenever the pain got too bad. He'd seen the same shattered look on his Dad's face more nights than he didn't, knowing he was reliving the death of his wife over and over again. He felt his own eyes prickle with tears.

 

“But you did do something about it Cas. You changed, obviously. You became a cop so you could stop things like that from happening to someone else's-” He stopped short.

 

“Did. Didn't turn out so well, did it? Someone else's baby brother is lyin' on a table in the morgue 'cause a' me.” Cas' voice was devoid of all emotion and Dean watched as the man rolled onto his side, rolled away from him and curled up, shoulders hunched against the weight of the world.

 

Heart breaking, Dean pressed the length of his body behind Cas', arms around his waist. He kissed the back of his neck. “You're a good man, Cas. Better than I'll ever be. I know you don't believe it, but you've saved people. Made the streets safer the best way you could. And I lo-” Dean bit down on his lip before the words could spill out. 

 

He closed his eyes when he heard the soft sound of Cas snoring and dropped his forehead to Cas' neck. “I love you, Cas. God help me, but I do.”

 

\- -

 

He laid there with Cas for another half an hour before he got up to make a phone call down to the desk.

 

“Hey, Andy? Yeah, it's Dean. Look, I need you to do me a huge favor. The guy I got in here, he's passed out drunk and I need to stay with him. I...he needs me, I think. I'm gonna put a Do Not Disturb sign on the door, but can you make it look like he checked out on time and just tell housekeeping to come after we leave? Yeah? Oh man, thank you. I owe you.” Dean snorted. “Not that, you pervert. You don't even like dick anyway. Yeah, whatever. Thanks.”

 

Dean hung up and crossed back to the bed with a bottle of water and a travel package of aspirin and laid it on the bedside table. As gently as he could he pulled Cas' shoes off, stripping him down to his boxers and rolling him forward and back until he managed to get him under the blanket. Dean dropped the bathrobe and slid into the bed, snuggling himself up against Cas' warm, bare back.

 

He was almost asleep when fingers threaded through his where it laid across Cas' chest. “Love you too, Dean.”

 

 


	6. Patience

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Dean makes a big decision, things fall apart, and Sam is pretty cute (the little shit!)

**Notes for the Chapter:**

>  **warning** for: shitty jealous behavior (dammit cas!), discussion/references to violence and murder, balthazar being meddlesome

 

**pa-tience** _ n _ . \paSHens\ 1. the capacity to accept or tolerate delay, trouble, or suffering without getting angry or upset.

  
  


Dean passed over his money to the cabbie and shoved open the back door of the car in front of the police station. He almost had to laugh at himself.

To think that he once _wanted_ to be in this place, if only to sleep off a bad night and be in the company of people, _cops_ no less, who genuinely seemed to care about him. Until Cas appeared in his life, this was one of the few places where he felt safe. 

He hadn't even thought for a second about this place, besides that it was where Cas worked. He hadn't stepped foot here (willing or otherwise) in almost two months and the reason why took him a little by surprise.

Cas was his safe place now. 

It was insane, but it was the truth. He had never felt for anyone the way he felt for and around Cas. On the outside, he might have appeared to be everyone's favorite easygoing flirt, but in reality he had walled himself up, never letting anyone in if he could help it. 

Cas had  _destroyed_ those walls. The worst part was that he hadn't even realized it until it was too late and Cas was so deep inside him he knew it would leave a gaping black hole if Cas ever left him. 

When.  _When_ Cas left. It was inevitable, really. Dean wasn't any kind of prize, not really. The novelty of domesticating a whore would wear off eventually, even if Dean quit the life. Cas would resent all the men, the johns, that had come before him, the men that bought him for whatever he was desperate enough to take.

It was painful to think about not having Cas in his life, and he had been trying with everything he had to just enjoy the time he had before it was all over. But that fear of the end had him holding back just a little. 

Other than that first time, he hadn't said he loved Cas again, even though he did, so much so that it scared him. Of course, Cas hadn't said it either. Didn't seem to remember the quiet murmur in the dark, wrapped in satin sheets and Dean's arms. Cas had been drunk off of his ass and in a kind of pain Dean could hardly pretend to imagine. Maybe it had been a comfort thing, or an instinctive response to Dean's own confession. In any case, he hadn't said it. So Dean wasn't going to set himself up for the hardest fall and say it again. 

Too bad that didn't stop him from screaming it inside his own head every time Cas touched him.

He snapped out of his melancholy when the third person passing him on the sidewalk gave him a curious look. 

Right. He was standing outside of the station, just looking up at it like a dumbass. 

With a sigh he pushed open the door and made his way up to the Vice unit's floor. He walked through the double doors and tried to lock down on the urge to seek Cas out with his eyes. 

Cas had been...weird, off, ever since he had shared with Dean what Detective Roche had asked of him. Dean wasn't sure what reaction Cas wanted, but it really seemed that Cas didn't want anyone at the station to know about them. 

They certainly hadn't spent a whole lot of time out and about, other than the few times Cas had taken him out to grope him in dark corners of seedy bars and fuck him up against gritty alley walls. Dean had gotten Cas to take him out to a movie, though he still felt guilty for letting the man pay for him, but Cas couldn't have cared less about the movie and spent the entire time feeling Dean up, turning him on so badly he'd given up on trying to pay attention and climbed onto Cas' lap and sunk down on his cock, riding him in reverse (Cas had paid for the movie, dammit, one of them should have at least  _tried_ to watch it) until he'd come screaming with Cas' hand clapped over his mouth to keep him quiet.

Even though he knew it was probably for the best, it still stung. He wanted to be the kind of guy that Cas would be proud to show off, that he'd want everyone to know who Dean belonged to.

Despite his best efforts, his eyes found Cas' sitting at his desk across the room. His partner was at his own desk and Cas looked away without even a hint of recognition, let alone whatever else was between them. 

Dean turned, trying not to let his face show the disappointment and hurt he felt, to see Balthazar sauntering over to him with a sober smile. The detective pulled a hand out of his pocket and waved Dean over to his own desk. 

Dean glanced over at Cas once more, but he was busy talking something over with his partner, gesturing to a stack of papers.

When he got over to Balthazar's desk, the detective was giving him a searching look, and Dean realized that his behavior was so far from what it had once been when Dean had been here in the past. Forcing his mouth into the shape of a playful grin, he propped his ass on the side of Balthazar's desk, letting his fingers wander to play with the handle of the stained coffee mug next to his hip.

“So, detective, I heard you wanted to talk to me. What can I do for Boston's finest today?” He threw a half-hearted wink at the man. 

Balthazar smile was solemn and it put Dean on edge. Cas had mentioned that a body had been found, with Alastair's signature and Dean automatically began running through the list of girls that had gone missing in the last few weeks. Who had it been?

Dean looked up from his contemplation when Balthazar laid a hand on his forearm. He cocked his head to the side, toward where Dean knew the interrogation rooms were. He straightened from the desk and let the detective lead him, still touching him. 

He couldn't stop the last look he threw over his shoulder at Cas and the dark, possessive look in the man's eyes sent a shiver of anticipation up Dean's spine. That look promised trouble, promised a fucking so hard and passionate Dean could almost feel it now. 

The eye contact was broken when Cas' partner got his attention again, but could feel the weight and heat of that gaze like a physical touch. Balthazar gave him a questioning look when the shudder shook him uncontrollably. Dean just shrugged it off and muttered, “Cold.” 

The detective's right eyebrow crawled toward his stupidly styled blond not-dark-disgustingly-sexy-tousled hair and Dean pretended not to notice as the squad room disappeared when they turned down the hall to the interview rooms. 

\- -

Balthazar gestured for Dean to take a seat in one of the uncomfortable metal chairs and sat with a graceful looking flop in the other, pulling a handheld recorder out of his pocket and laying it on the table between them. The detective cleared his throat and pressed a button on the side.

“This interview will need to be recorded, Dean, as it is part of an official homicide investigation. Do you consent to being recorded?” 

Dean nodded and then gave his consent verbally so that it would be on record.

Balthazar took a deep breath and spoke for the sake of the recorder, reciting the date and time, his name and badge number, Dean's name and the case number. “Dean, you've been asked to come in and speak with us today, not because you are in trouble, but because you are part of the...community of people who have been targeted by the man known as 'Alastair.' You are also a known associate of the young lady found on the morning of November 1, 2014. The female in question has been identified as one Lisa Elizabeth Braeden, twenty-four years old at time of death. Do you acknowledge being an acquaintance of Ms. Braeden?”

Dean felt his heart drop and his vision blacken, and he could not for the life of him answer the question. Oh God, Lisa. They had known each other for so long. She was one of his closest friends in the life, and she'd been there when he'd shown up on the streets, a terrified teenager, starving and desperate. Much as he'd done with Krissy, she'd shown him what to do, how to dress, how to act, how to stay safe. How had this happened?

“Dean?” The detective's voice was soft with sympathy. 

He choked on a sob, feeling the tears threatening. “Yeah...I-I know...knew Lisa.” 

Balthazar nodded and made a note in the little spiral-bound notebook he must have taken from his jacket. 

Suddenly Dean remembered with a jolt. “Oh God, Ben! She has a little boy...oh God, please tell me he's ok.” 

Balthazar put a hand on his. “He's alright, Dean. He was with Lisa's landlady. He's safe.” 

Dean felt immediate relief. Right. Lisa left little Ben with her landlady when she had to go out and work. He wouldn't have been with Lisa when... “Where...where is he now?”

The detective sighed. “He's been taken into the custody of Child Services. He'll likely be entered into the foster care system. There is no record of next of kin for Ms. Braeden.”

Dean shook his head sadly. “No. She left home, I think she said Indiana, when she was 16 to get away from her abusive dad. Ended up here somehow. There's no one she'd want Ben to have, not that she was related to anyway.”

Balthazar nodded again as he wrote what Dean had said. “That's usually how it goes.” The detective looked up at him with an apologetic look. “Sorry. You already know that.” Dean shrugged.

“What do you need to know? I don't know much of anything about Alastair. He started showing up on the streets a few years ago, not sure where he came from or if he's from around here. At first he was your average run of the mill john, maybe liked things a little on the rough side. But then girls, some guys, started to come back from dates with him hurt. Beaten up mostly, sometimes cut.”

Balthazar stopped him by holding a hand up. “Why didn't anyone report him?” 

The look Dean gave him in response was eloquent. “Really? Why didn't the poor little whores report the bad man who paid to hurt them?”

Balthazar looked contrite. “Sorry, Dean. I have to ask these questions.”

Dean knew he hadn't meant it as reproachfully as Dean had interpreted it. It still sucked, because it was true. “Anyway. Sometimes a girl would go missing, we'd all be sure she'd end up in the river or the landfill, and most times they just disappeared, but a few of them turned up again a couple'a days or a week later, and something was obviously wrong with them. None of those girls ever talked about what happened to them, and we didn't ask. We see enough, put up with enough horrible shit day in and day out without remembering the stuff that happened before. But they looked...broken. More so than your average whore. Most of those girls didn't make it very long after.”

Balthazar was scribbling hard. Why the detective took notes when he had a damn recorder was beyond Dean, but maybe it was just a cop thing. Still writing, he spoke. “Anything else, Dean?”

Dean thought about it. “Uh...not that I know of? What about Krissy? He almost got her twice. What if he goes after her again?”

Balthazar looked up in question, then smiled crookedly. “Little spitfire's already in protective custody. Giving Ellen hell and driving Jo, Officer Harvelle, up the damn wall with her sass. They're looking to get her placed somewhere actually, get her back into school so she has a good chance of getting out of the life.” 

Dean grinned. Krissy was somethin' else. Dean felt a bit like a big brother to her, and was glad she was getting out. He felt a little guilty that he'd been so caught up in Cas he hadn't checked on her more in a while.

The detective tapped on the table to get Dean's attention back. “If that's all, Dean, there is something I need to ask of you.” The grave tone of Balthazar's voice was a giant red flag that Dean would definitely not like the question. 

Dean took a calming breath he was certain he'd need. “Alright. Lay it on me.”

Balthazar fiddled with his nub of a pencil before steeling himself. “We need your help, Dean. We need someone on the inside, someone with knowledge of this guy. We need to find him, and we need someone who can talk to everyone who might know something. I'm sure you know, but most of the people...in your line of work....do not trust the police, and will not talk to us voluntarily. We need you to be our liaison, Dean.” 

Dean sat back hard in his chair, staring at Balthazar's pleading face. Well shit. It was in that exact moment that Dean came to a startling decision. He would do this, he would do whatever he had to to get justice for Lisa and her little boy, but then he was done. He was out, of all of it. Crowley would be hell to deal with, especially because they had a contract that Dean fully intended to break early, but there wasn't much he could do about it if Dean really wanted out. 

He needed out, wanted desperately out, but not for Cas. Or not  _only_ for Cas. He needed to be there for Sammy. God, he couldn't even think about what would happen to Sam if Dean ended up dead because he risked his life every night he went out. It would be hard, probably too hard, but he had to do it. He'd beg people to give him a chance on a job, he could work under the table if he had to, but he was getting out. 

He felt a look of determination cross his face, and the detective across from him sagged a little in relief. “Yeah. I'll do it. For Lisa.”

\- -

Dean signed his name to the last of what had felt like a million different forms. Balthazar had told him, once he'd agreed, that the department would be able to offer him some compensation for being an official criminal informant. Although Dean had bristled at the word 'criminal', he'd signed the papers. He'd need the money if he followed through on his plans, and he wasn't about to go back on his decision. 

He shoved the paper back over to Balthazar, and he signed his own name on the line and tucked it all away into a folder. He gave Dean a look and clicked off the recorder, stowing it back into his pocket. 

“There is something else I'd like to discuss with you Dean, off the record.” The detective's voice was carefully hiding whatever he was feeling and Dean froze in the middle of stretching out his back, arms raised up above his head. He dropped his hands to his lap and looked directly at Balthazar.

“About?”

“What is the nature of your relationship with Detective Castiel Novak?” Dean's jaw fell open, and he tried to recover the look on his face, but he didn't think he'd managed.

“Uh...what- what makes you think I'm involved with Ca- Detective Novak in any way?” He hedged.

To his surprise, Balthazar snorted. “You two really are perfect for each other. He said almost exactly the same thing to me when I suggested, very subtly of course, that he might know where you were.”

Dean felt his face pale, and then flush hot. He looked down at his hands and then back up at the detective from under his lashes. The man's face was shrewd now. 

“I sincerely hope that you are not jerking him around Dean Winchester.” 

“Of course I'm not!” He shouted angrily. “I mean...if I knew what you were talking about.”

Balthazar shook his head but his expression turned considering. “You are aware that he comes from a very wealthy family, are you not? One might be concerned that one was taking advantage.”

Dean rolled his eyes and tried not to flip the table over. “First, if you knew anything about Cas at all,” Balthazar's eyes flashed when the name slipped out, “you'd know that he hates that he's related to them, refuses to have anything to do with them. He lives in an apartment almost as crappy as mine and lives off of his paycheck from the city.”

Balthazar nodded. “So you aren't looking for a provider, Dean? Not looking for a sugar daddy?” 

Dean blushed so hard he thought his face might be on fire at the memories the word 'daddy' brought up, but shook his head. “You've known me a long time Balth, is that like me at all? Christ, I actually caught him trying to pay one of my bills behind my back and I didn't talk to him for three days.” He made a sound of exasperation. 

The detective laughed, and Dean felt the mood lighten considerably. The man gave him a serious look, despite the fading laughter. “Just tell me you aren't playing him, Dean. I haven't known Castiel for very long, but I have never seen him smile the way he does now. It's actually kind of scary, he looks almost human now.” 

Dean grinned. That definitely sounded like his grumpy lover. 

Balthazar made a sound of surprise and Dean brought his eyes back to find the detective looking at him with something close to awe on his face. 

“You- You're in love with him, aren't you?” 

Dean rubbed the back of his neck and flushed. “I am. Stupid of me, really. I have no idea if he feels the same way.”

Balthazar's eyes softened and he smiled. “Dean,” he chided. “I think you know the answer to that question.”

Dean shook his head. “Do I? Why would he? If I fall in love, I just end up a cautionary whore's tale. If he does? My reputation can take the tarnish, I don't think his can. I don't want to be the reason, don't want him to end up resenting me because of what I've done or what other people will say about him if anyone finds out. Maybe I should just-”

Balthazar's hand tilted his face up and cut off his babbling. The man's smile was kind. “I think you should just be patient, Dean. Give him the benefit of the doubt.”

Dean looked at him for a few beats, and then nodded when the hand pulled away. “Yeah..okay. But if this ends bad, I'm blaming you.” He scowled. He already knew it would end badly.

Balthazar laughed and slapped his hands down on the table. “Alright, I've kept you quite long enough already today. Let's get you out of here, shall we?” 

They stood together, and Balthazar gathered up his papers and tucked them into the crook of one arm. The other he laid across Dean's shoulders, fingers squeezing his upper arm comfortingly as Dean pushed the door open and froze.

There standing across the hall with his arms crossed over his chest and a barely reigned in thunderous look on his face. His eyes landed on Balthazar's arm around him and his face darkened as he looked at his fellow detective. 

“Could I have a quick word with Mr. Winchester, Detective Roche?” He growled menacingly.

The warning in the other man's tone clearly did not work on the tall blond detective, because instead of freezing like Dean had, if it was possible his body relaxed more against Dean, pressing their sides together and his fingers tightened on his arm. 

Something passed between the two detectives and Dean was pretty sure he didn't want to be in the middle of whatever it was. 

Balthazar sighed and separated himself, letting his fingertips trail over Dean's shoulders as he went. “Thank you for all of your help, Dean. Truly.” Dean nodded in acknowledgment and waved as the detective turned the corner with a grin and a wink. Dean closed his eyes and took a breath before turning back to Cas.

Cas was seething, hands clenched into fists under his arms. “You wanted to talk to me Detective?”

Cas' eyes flashed dangerously and he stopped himself short of lunging at Dean. He didn't even uncross his arms, just pointed at the interview room door from underneath his elbow. Dean hesitated, watching as Cas struggled to hold himself together before he turned and went back into the room. 

He got only a few feet inside the room before it slammed shut, locked, and Dean was shoved face-first up against the mirrored “window” in the middle of the room. Contrary to what the cop shows on TV would have you believe, most interview rooms were in fact not fitted out with one-way glass windows so that interested parties could watch an interrogation. But most criminals didn't know that, at least not at first, and the huge pane of reflective glass was intimidating as hell. 

Dean looked at Cas' hands next to his head, body caging him in, and finally up to his face in the glass. Cas looked wild. He pressed his body up against Dean's back, a surprisingly hard cock nudged against his ass. He groaned when Cas nuzzled at his throat. 

“C-cas? You alright?” He yelped when Cas sucked hard on his skin, heat and want arcing straight to his cock. 

“He touched you. You let another man touch you.” Cas' purr was deadly and Dean swallowed. But he wasn't going to give in. If Cas' was jealous of just Balthazar's _arm_ on him...

“Cas, a lot of men touch me. A lot of men do more than touch me.” He said bluntly.

Cas stiffened and Dean was sure that this was the end he'd expected. He wasn't going to pretend that he was some virgin and Cas was his first and last. He wanted Cas to be his last, but it seemed less likely the longer Cas stood there not saying a thing.

Fingers twisted in his shirt and spun him around, backing him up hard. Cas' thumbs traced up the line of his throat, could probably feel his pulse pounding beneath them, and up to his jaw, tilting his face up with painful precision. 

The look on Cas' face dried his mouth. God he was gorgeous, looking like a righteous warrior angel about to smite every last man who had ever dared lay a finger on Dean. One thumb traced over his dry lips as he leaned in. 

“No one but me will ever touch you again, Dean. No one.” Dean sucked in a breath that was immediately sucked back out by Cas' lips on his.

The kiss was devastating. Soul destroying. It broke him apart into bitty little pieces and scattered them across the universe. 

Only Cas' hands on him kept him upright, and he was painfully hard in his jeans. Cas was hard, so hard, pressed up against him and fuck did Dean want it. He rubbed himself against Cas and the other man groaned deeply, dropping his lips to suck at his neck again. 

Dean was about to tug Cas' shirt out of his slacks when Cas' hands circled his wrists, stilling their movement. Cas sighed against his throat.

“I want to see you tonight.”

Dean was on the verge of agreeing, but at the last second he remembered the decision he had made earlier. He needed to spend a night with his brother, needed to talk to him about what was going to happen, about what to expect. 

“I-I can't Cas.” Cas' head snapped up and speared him with those eyes. “I'm sorry. I need to spend some time with Sammy.”

Cas' mouth tightened, but he nodded. “Tomorrow.” It wasn't a question.

Fuck...he had to get this thing with Alastair over with, and he didn't think Balthazar would appreciate him taking a night to get pounded into the headboard from finding the person who had killed his friend and threatened people he cared about.

He took a deep breath and looked into Cas' eyes, pleading with him to understand. “I have to work tomorrow night.”

He nearly took it back when Cas' eyes shuttered, turned cold. “Baby, please...”

Cas shoved away from him and flung the door open as he stormed out without looking back.

\- - -

Dean was sitting dejectedly at the kitchen table, his head in his hands and wishing for the first time ever that he drank, when the sound of Sammy's key in the lock broke through his fog of self-hatred.

Why hadn't he just told Cas what Balthazar had asked him to do? Surely Cas would have understood that Alastair needed to be caught, and soon. Instead he'd fucked it up, and he didn't think Cas would come back this time. 

The door closed behind his brother and a backpack dropped next to it while Sam toed off his sneakers.

“Dean? Everything ok?” Sammy's concerned face came into view as he turned his head toward the voice. 

He shook himself out of his head and smiled, or tried. “Yeah, buddy. Everything is fine, actually, better than fine I think. Hey, so I was thinking, we should go out for dinner tonight, whadda ya say?”

Sam squinted at him but then grinned. “That would be awesome Dean!”

He grabbed his keys off the table and slung an arm around Sammy's neck. Damn, but the kid was getting taller than ever. Soon he'd tower over Dean, and that was just fucking embarrassing. “Let's go, kiddo. You pick the place.”

\- -

The two of them were seated after a short wait at Benny's Best Soul Cafe, looking through a frigging ridiculous list of delicious sounding food. Dean was contemplating a rack of ribs with all the sides they could fit on the plate with pie for dessert when Sam caught his attention.

Sam had a worried look on his face. “Dean, we can't afford this place. I- we should go somewhere else.”

Dean shook his head. “No bud, we can swing it this once.” He took a deep breath. “Thing is, there's something I wanted to talk to you about.” Sam looked at him and waited. “Okay. So, you know about my job right? The...escort job?” He flushed with shame until Sam touched his hand clenched around the menu. 

Just then a cute little waitress with a nametag that said “Elizabeth” bounced over to their table. “What can I get ya fellas?” Her drawl was out of place for Boston, but charming as hell. They ordered, after Dean encouraged Sam to pick what he wanted and rolled his eyes when he ordered the healthiest items on the menu. When she walked away, Sam looked back at him.

“You were saying, Dean? Yeah, I know about it. I hate that you have that stupid job, but I know if you could have anything else you would.” His face was so earnest, so full of belief in his brother that Dean felt choked up.

He cleared his throat. “You're right, and a little wrong. I wanted to take you out, because we never do, and because...I wanted to tell you I was quitting. I have one thing I have to do yet, tie up some loose ends, but...I've been thinking about trying to go to school. 'Cause I talked to someone recently that said I might have a pretty good chance of getting a full scholarship. I want to do something with my life, Sammy. I want to be a better role model for you.” His voice was tight at the end, and the look on his brother's face wasn't helping.

“Dean...Oh man. Dean you have no idea. You do _everything_ you do, because you have to take care of me. I respect you so much for that. You gave up your _life_ so that I could have one, and I can never pay you back for that. You have nothing to apologize for.”

Dean swiped at the tears threatening to fall and sniffed. “You don't owe me a thing. It was my responsibility to take care of you, I wasn't about to let you go into the system, and you know it. But I just need you to know, when I quit, things are probably going to be really,  _really_ hard, and I don't know for how long. I just don't want you to hate me for giving up a job that pays decently because it's a shitty job.”

Sam looked at him. “I couldn't hate you, Dean. We'll make it work, ok?”

Dean's smile was shaky. “Yeah, buddy. We'll make it work.”

\- -

Stuffed to bursting, Dean was trying to shove the last few bites of the most orgasmic bourbon pecan pie he'd ever eaten in his entire life into his mouth while Sam sat there and laughed at his groans.

“Jeez, Dean. If you love that pie so much, why don't you marry it?” Fucking kid humor. Dean snorted hard and clutched at his stomach.

“Speaking of love, Dean, when am I gonna meet your boyfriend?” The question was so innocent sounding, but Dean choked on his pie. 

Fuck.

“Uhhhhh....what?” Nice one, Dean. Not lame at all.

Sammy smirked. “Oh c'mon. You've been happy, actually  _happy_ , for the last few months. Don't tell me that's just a coincidence. Not to mention, you talk about someone named Cas, like, constantly. I've never heard you talk about anyone like that. Do you love him?”

Dean flushed. “I...uh...”

Sam gave him a look that was much too mature for his 15 year old little brother whose diapers he'd changed as a kid. “You know you're allowed to be in love with someone, Dean. You deserve it. You deserve good things.”

Goddamn, from the mouths of enormous babes.

Too bad it was too late for that now.

\- - -

The next night, Dean was standing in his bedroom, pulling on his outfit for work. He'd looked through his entire wardrobe and felt only disgust. Swear to God, the minute this shit was over, he was setting it all on fire.

Getting himself in the right frame of mind for what he had to do was harder than he'd thought. He was distracted as fuck. He'd tried to call Cas after Sammy had gone to bed the night before, to try to explain what was happening, to tell him what he'd decided to do, to beg him not to leave him. But Cas hadn't answered, the call had gone straight to voicemail, and the rejection was a knife to the heart of him. 

He should probably try to get over Cas, anyway. He had shit to do, and then a new life to start. If Cas wasn't going to be in it....well, he'd have to go on with it anyway. He needed to do this for himself, for Sam. 

He slipped into his boots, checked himself over one last time in the mirror and came out to say goodbye to Sammy, that he'd be home later, before stomping out the door with confidence he didn't feel, his head held high and shoulders straight against the night.

 

 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *soothes you, dear readers* Shhh...I know it hurts. I'll make it better. Eventually. *evil grin*
> 
> Also, I realize how truly shitty Cas is acting here. I wanted to point out though, that his ignoring Dean in the beginning is because he believes that Dean doesn't want anyone to know about them so he's trying to play it cool and not be a humongous lovesick doof. I will go through his reaction to the scenes where he was present in the next chapter of Vices!


End file.
